by Pat Murphy
Tommy had better luck talking with Jax. He demanded the crossbow lessons that she had promised him, and they spent an afternoon in Union Square, shooting at a target that Jax hung on a telephone pole. Jezebel came with them. The dog seemed torn between Tommy and Jax: sometimes she sat at Tommy’s feet, and sometimes at Jax’s.
“If I were to go away somewhere,” Jax said, “you’d take care of Jezebel, right?”
“You going somewhere?” Tommy asked. “Where are you going?”
Jax shook her head. “Nowhere. I was just asking. Why don’t you just keep on taking care of her. She likes you. And you need a dog.”
“OK, but you aren’t going anywhere, are you?”
Jax shrugged. She handed him another bolt for the crossbow. “Here, try again.” He loaded the bow, aimed, and fired, hitting the telephone pole but missing the target.
“Not bad,” she said. “Try to relax your shoulders. You’re still too tense.”
He tried again.
“Better. A little more practice and you’ll be fine.”
At the end of the lesson, he handed her the crossbow. “Will you help me make a crossbow?” he asked her. “So I can practice on my own.”
She hesitated, holding the weapon, and then held it out to him. “Take this one,” she said. “I don’t need it.”
He shook his head. “What do you mean? That’s your crossbow. Sure you need it.”
“Take it.” She put it in his hands. “I won’t be using it again.” Before he could reply, she ran away. He chased her, but she lost him in the twists and turns of the downtown streets.
Jax explored the city’s high places, climbing Telegraph Hill, Mt. Sutro, Mt. Davidson. In the Sunset District, she found a high hill so steep that houses had never been built there. The soil was dry and sandy; only a few stunted pine trees clung to the slope.
The moon was three nights from full when she found the hill. With her bare hands, she scooped out a small depression in the loose soil and there she waited. She fasted, drinking only the clear water that she had brought with her. At night the stars came to see her, and the moon passed calmly overhead. The air held the clean sharp scent of pines, and the animals that shared her hilltop went about their business. The fox that lived in a burrow among the roots of the largest pine looked at her curiously, then went to hunt for rodents. An owl soared silently overhead. Three monkeys that had followed her to the hilltop huddled by a tree, staring at her with curious yellow eyes.
The moon was full on the third night. She had given up sleep as well as food, and her senses had grown more acute. She could smell the distant wood smoke of someone’s cooking fire in the city, hear the delicate rustling of twigs as the fox crept down the hill. She heard the gentle sound of her mother’s breathing and felt the warmth of her body nearby.
“You’ve been looking for me,” her mother said.
“Sometimes.”
“Peace comes hard,” her mother said. “I should have warned you about that.”
Jax looked at her mother’s face. Her mother was a young woman now, just a little older than Jax. Her head was tilted back and the pale moonlight shone on her face.
“Peace has a price,” her mother said. “It always does. When you start, you don’t know what the price will be.”
“I understand,” Jax said. She looked past her mother and saw Danny-boy and The Machine standing together in the moonlight.
The angel came to her then, its wings rustling softly. Jax smiled at its ravaged face. It was not so frightening now.
“I guess I belong here,” Jax said, and she took its metal hand in hers.
Late at night, when people tell stories, the artists who live in San Francisco talk about the war. Tommy, now an old man, remembers that time and speaks of Danny-boy, The Machine, Ms. Migsdale, Books, Snake, and—most important of all—Jax. He describes her for the others: a stranger who came to save the city, a wild woman with dark eyes and a quick temper. Some of the young people have their own stories of Jax—they have seen her in the early morning fog, appearing briefly and then vanishing into the mist.
The artists say that if the city were ever invaded again, Jax would return, accompanied by Danny-boy and The Machine, to defend her home. But the legend has never been put to the test. The city is a peaceful place. The monkeys sleep in the trees of the Civic Center Plaza and the pigeons nest between the feet of the statues on the library facade. On market day, Marin farmers cross the brilliant blue bridge to trade at Duff’s. Despite the passage of time, its color has not faded. And sometimes, though rarely these days, it rains flowers.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank all my friends for their encouragement while I was writing this book. I wouldn’t have made it without them.
I would also like to thank Frank Oppenheimer for founding the Exploratorium, a place where artists of all kinds can find inspiration and assistance. I’m grateful to many members of the Exploratorium staff for sharing their ideas and expertise, particularly Ned Kahn, Bob Miller (creator of the Garden of Light), Pamela Winfrey, Carlye Honig, Brenda Hutchinson, Dave Fleming, Ruth Brown, Cary Crounse, Esther Kutnick, and all the cantankerous artists of the Graphics Department.
Special thanks to Jenefer Merrill, Mark Switzer, and their daughters Sadie and Kate for providing me with a weekly retreat where telephone calls couldn’t find me, and to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts for allowing me two weeks of uninterrupted writing time.
I appreciate the encouragement and constructive advice of my fellow writers: Lisa Goldstein, Mikey Roessner-Herman, Avon Swofford, Cheri Wilkerson, Richard Russo, Lew Shiner, Steve Brown, Mark Van Name, and Richard Kadrey (who had to live with this novel for as long as I did).
Finally, I would like to thank Jean Naggar, Lou Aronica, and Shawna McCarthy for providing the final push required to make me finish.
About the Author
Pat Murphy has won numerous awards for her thoughtful, literary science fiction and fantasy writing, including two Nebula Awards, the Philip K. Dick Award, the World Fantasy Award, the Seiun Award, and the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. She has published eight novels and many short stories. Her works include Rachel in Love; The Falling Woman; The City, Not Long After; Nadya; and Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell, a novel that Publishers Weekly called the “cerebral equivalent of a roller-coaster ride.” Her children’s novel, The Wild Girls, received a Christopher Award in 2008.
In addition to writing fiction, Pat writes about science for children and adults. She has authored three science books for adults and more than fifteen science activity books for children. Her science writings have been honored with the American Institute of Physics Science Communication Award, the Science Books and Films Prize for Excellence in Science Books, the Pirelli INTERNETional Award for environmental publishing, and an award from Good Housekeeping.
In 1991, with writer Karen Fowler, Pat cofounded the James Tiptree, Jr. Award, an annual literary prize for science fiction or fantasy that expands or explores our understanding of gender roles. This award is funded by grassroots efforts that include auctions and bake sales, harnessing the power of chocolate chip cookies in an ongoing effort to change the world.
Pat enjoys looking for and making trouble. Her favorite color is ultraviolet. Her favorite book is whichever one she is working on right now.
David Wright
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1989 by Pat Murphy
Cover design by Kelly Parr
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